DART Ride Into Dublin
Darren's return back to Dublin was muted and gray skies thick with rain, streets slick and reflective, air sharp and damp. He sat alone on the DART, hood up, headphones in. They're cheap, wires taped at the stem, foam worn to the mesh.
But everything else feels wrong.
Each screech of the wheels makes him flinch. A cough from a passenger three seats over draws a glance. He's like a live wire. He's gripping the seat rail like it might anchor him.
In SHIELD's holding wing, it was sterile. Quiet. Predictable. Noise was contained. Schedules were strict. The world outside was distant.
But now that he is back outside, the world is loud. Alive.
Too alive.
A billboard flashes past. Too bright.
A train announcement blares. Too sharp.
Someone snaps a photo at the next stop and the flash punches straight through his skull.
He breathes, steady, deliberate.
In. Out. Five count. Again.
Again.
The rhythm keeps him from spiraling. Until it doesn't.
He passes the Spire. Grand Canal. The sweet shop smell near O'Connell. It's all familiar. But his body reads it like a warzone.
Adrenaline pulses from the sound of a bus backfiring. A child's scream across the street makes his shoulders jump. A dog barking sends a shock through his spine.
He mutters under his breath: "Just Dublin. Just the city. You're not there anymore."
But his hands still twitch. His eyes scan corners. His heart doesn't believe the lie.
SHIELD had kept the world out. The silence, the sterile corridors, the routine, it dulled the edges. It let him pretend he was fine.
For a while.
But it was a temporary fix. A pressure dressing on something still bleeding underneath. The second he left their control, stepped into real streets, with real people, and real noise, it all came rushing back.
The guilt.
The noise.
He was holding it together by instinct, not healing. He hadn't dealt with what happened. He'd buried it under lab reports, blood tests, silent nods from Chapman. But now the bandage was off.
And the wound was still wide open.
SHIELD was clinical. Cold. But it made sense. Every hallway the same. Every sound accounted for. Lights stayed still. People walked with purpose. Nobody brushed up against you by accident.
Dublin didn't do that. Dublin was noise and randomness. Kids screaming. Horns blaring. Shops with fluorescent lights that flickered like warnings. Strangers packed too close. He'd been "free" for six hours and already felt like peeling out of his own skin.
Out there, he was just Darren. Just a guy in a hoodie. Which meant anything could happen. And no one would stop it.
A man coughed behind him. Darren flinched. Too loud. Too close. His thoughts scattered.
Did he just say something? His head turned slightly, heart kicking up. No. Just a guy. Just a noise.
Get a grip. Get a grip. Diaz is dead. You saw the blood. You caused the blood.
His own brain kept flickering through thoughts like a TV on scan mode:
What if you'd pulled the punch? No, then he'd have gutted you. You didn't mean to kill him. You did. You didn't. You did.
And then, barely a whisper in the back of his skull: "You liked it."
He physically jerked. Almost stood up. Realized he hadn't moved.
Counting. Counting. Count something. The rivets in the train wall. The people. The seconds. Focus.
Books & Other Miracles – Back on Shift
The doorbell above the shop tinks. Too sharp. Too fast.
Darren flinches anyway.
Rain clings to his jacket in sheets, soaking through at the shoulders. His hood's still up. The air smells like wet stone and old paper, familiar. Comforting. Almost.
Norah glances up from her paperback. "You look taller." She squints. "Or more miserable."
He forces a smile. Not quite a lie. Just… misdirection.
"Both," he says, voice thin. She nods like that tracks.
The shop hasn't changed. Still the same warped floorboards and crooked shelves and teetering stacks of mystery novels. Still the same coffee machine wheezing like it's dying in slow motion.
But every sound hits too loud. The register chimes, he jerks. A courier thumps a box onto the counter, his fingers twitch.
His brain wouldn't shut up.
Register ding means attention. They're looking at you. Don't look weird. Don't shake. Smile, idiot, smile.
Norah doesn't comment. Just slides him a teacup and gestures to the back shelves. "Printer's jammed again."
He nods, grateful. Shelving is quiet work. Work with rules. One book, one slot. Order.
But as he lifts a stack of returns, someone laughs too loud near the front. He startles. Nearly drops a novel.
It was nothing. You're fine. Smile again. You're working. It's just a laugh. Just a laugh.
He moves toward the sci-fi shelf. Hands trembling. Palms sweaty on the spines of the books. Feels like someone's watching him, even though they aren't. Not really. Just customers.
But the voices come anyway.
Then hears it... a conversation, two college kids browsing the true crime section.
"…you seen that video? Of Sentinel? The one where he… y'know."
"Yeah. Jesus, it's fucked. He just kept punching. Even after the guy stopped moving."
Darren freezes.
One book still in his hand, mid-alphabet. His vision blurs at the edges. Static hum in his ears. Like tinnitus, except it talks.
"You didn't have to kill me."
He grips the shelf. Hard. Trying to ground. Count something. Spines. Fingers. Breathe.
In. Out. In. Out.
"He saved a bunch of people though. That guy would've killed a dozen easy."
"That doesn't mean you crush a guy's skull on camera, man."
"Mate, he derailed a fucking tram. Into a fucking building. People died man."
"Anyways no matter what you say man it was definitely scary as fuck, dude. Like the second it happened, everyone in the world was watching that shit happen. That shit went viral as fuck."
"They were always watching." The voice again. His voice. Or Diaz's. It morphs, overlaps. Like someone whispering behind his ear with his own mouth.
His heart spikes. His stomach flips.
Darren's hand slips. A book thuds to the floor. Hardback. Loud. His chest seizes. Norah glances up, but says nothing.
"…and then all those army-looking lads showed up after. Not Gardaí. Real black-suit spooks. Like, American military or something. No way that was just Dublin's problem."
He doesn't realise he's breathing shallow until the edges of his vision fuzz.
He backs into the staff corridor without thinking. Hunched. Like hiding from sniper fire. His pulse in his throat. In his ears. In his fucking teeth.
The break room is a closet. Microwave. Cracked mirror. One folding chair. He shuts the door. Locks it.
Hands shaking, he yanks out his phone. Plugs in the ancient headphones. Shoves them deep into his ears like he's trying to block out the whole world.
Music. Music now. Loud. Louder.
He taps play. Rob Zombie. Screaming guitars. The vocals hit like blunt force trauma. Perfect.
He curls forward in the chair. Knees to chest. Head down. Breath ragged.
It's like a switch flips in his brain. From chaos to static to controlled demolition. Everything outside, voices, shop sounds, guilt, memory, all of it drowns in noise.
It drowns out the buzzing lights. Drowns out the echo of Diaz's skull cracking. Drowns out the whisper: "You liked it."
His knee bounces. His fingers drum against the table. ADHD kicks in — too many thoughts at once:
You're fine.
You're broken.
No, you're just tired. Diaz had it coming.
You lost control.
It wasn't murder. It was self-defense.
You're Sentinel.
You're Darren.
You're both.
You're neither.
He stares at the floor and rides the music like a wave. Ten minutes. Maybe more. It doesn't matter.
Eventually… eventually, the rhythm of his own heartbeat slows enough to match the drums. Enough to feel human again.
He rewinds the track. Lets it finish. Then pulls the headphones out slowly. Like diffusing a bomb.
The silence after feels alien. Wrong.
But he stands.
Stares into the mirror. Practices a smirk. It doesn't reach his eyes. Not even close. Still — it's functional.
He washes his face. Cold water. Slaps his cheeks. Rehearses his voice under his breath. "Yeah, I'm grand. Just tired."
And then he walks back into the shop.
His smile is crooked. His eyes don't match. But he jokes with a customer about a bad mystery novel title. Helps an old woman to the true crime section.
Norah hands him a fresh tea without a word. He nods thanks.
[Trinity College – Days Later]
Three days since SHIELD.
Evening lecture lets out with a scatter of footsteps and the scraping drag of chairs. Darren's still not used to the crowds. Every movement feels too sudden. Every cough feels like a warning. A backpack zips open behind him and his shoulders tense like a trigger's been pulled.
He tells himself to breathe.
One… two…
He's getting better at it. Not good, not stable, but better. Or maybe just better at faking it.
Outside the cafe, Liam is already in full monologue mode, hands waving, both legs bouncing, voice rising and tripping over itself like it's chasing his own thoughts.
"—no but seriously Gotham's housing system is actually fascist. Like. Bruce Wayne could've built fifty hostels instead of ten batmobiles, and don't even get me started on Arkham, it's just a trauma recycling machine disguised as—"
Darren exhales through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Not quite annoyed.
"You were supposed to be writing your psych paper," he says, stepping up beside him.
"I am! This is background research."
"You're talking about Batman and zoning laws."
Liam points his pen like a weapon. "And trauma! Gotham's full of trauma. It's thematic."
Darren shakes his head, but there's a tug at the corner of his mouth. The warmth of it surprises him. A week ago, he wasn't sure he'd ever smile again without forcing it.
He jots a line in his notebook anyway - Gotham, compare with Cork City rent crisis? His pen feels steady in his hand. That's something.
Áine appears a few minutes later like she always does. Like she was always meant to be there. She's become part of this little chaos orbit so seamlessly Darren can't remember when it started. Only that it feels right now.
She waves a Monster can at him.
"You gave me this during lunch. Said something about 'emergency caffeine reserves.' Then wandered off mid-sentence."
Darren blinks. Had he? The memory's hazy. Disjointed. He shrugs, sheepish.
"My bad."
She grins and hands him something else. A wrapped scone, still warm.
"This one's for focus. Homemade. Blueberry and almond. Approved by gremlins everywhere."
Darren hesitates, then takes it. That small act means more than he can say. Something grounding. Real. Present.
They start walking the Liffey, shoes slapping against damp concrete, dodging puddles that reflect orange streetlamps like fire trapped in water. The city's still too loud, distant sirens, drunk students laughing near the bridge, a dog barking somewhere far off. Every sudden sound spikes adrenaline through Darren's chest.
But Liam's voice keeps rambling, darting from topics like a wasp in a jar: Batman, The Clone Saga, how Áine once built a D&D character based on Karl Marx. Áine teases him about mixing up his coffee order again, "you ordered a medium latte and walked out with a bottle of HP sauce" — and Liam defends himself with a solemn authority.
Darren just walks. Listens. And maybe has a giggle or two.
Áine notices. Not in a flashy way. She just smiles to herself and loops her arm around Liam's for a second, teasing him about almost walking into a traffic cone.
The voices of his friends are bright. Tangible. Predictable. It helps. He still scans for exits without thinking. Still watches the windows of passing buses for reflections that might not be there. Still flinches when a cyclist zips too close to the kerb. But with them, just for a few moments, the static dims.
He doesn't hear Diaz's voice tonight.
That's… something.
They walk like that for a while, just three students in Dublin, laughing about complete and utter nonsense. Áine was like a piece that was always missing and had finally found its spot with the two of them.
And Darren, Darren just breathes. He feels a little bit better.
"I hope this lasts"
[Charlie's Gym]
Night at the gym. The hum of the fluorescents is a scream behind his eyes. The lights flicker like warning signs. Someone left drill rap on loop, bassline like a jackhammer to the chest, but Darren isn't hearing it.
All he hears is breath. Gloves. Chain.
The heavy bag lurches under his fists. His strikes aren't measured, they're frantic. Feral. Hooks, crosses, elbows, again and again until his knuckles go numb through the wraps. He's not training. He's surviving.
His breath comes in bursts. Not from exertion, from panic. From adrenaline. From the need to do something. The bag sways wide, and he chases it. Slams it back with a brutal right. Then again. And again.
The voice slithers back in his head: "That was the best part, wasn't it? The silence after. When he stopped moving."
He roars and slams an uppercut that snaps the bag so hard it lifts off the chain. The clatter echoes across the room.
His brain's spiraling now.
Check form? No — breathe.
Don't cry. Diaz is dead.
D. E. D. Dead.
You killed him. He had a family.
No he didn't. Shut up.
You didn't mean to.
Didn't you?
Shut UP.
He paces. Bounces on the balls of his feet. Feels the ghost of Diaz in the mirrors. A shadow behind him. Turns... nothing.
Just him. Just the gym.
He strikes again. A knee. Another. Then clinches the bag, dragging it down like he's trying to snap its spine. Hammers knees into it like he's trying to shatter bone.
In his mind, it's not a bag anymore. It's a helmet. Cracking. Bleeding.
He sees Diaz's face for a split second, bloodied, broken, and he keeps hitting it anyway.
He throws a spinning elbow. Misses. Punches the bag so hard he tears through the canvas, stuffing leaking out.
Sweat pours. His chest heaves. No music. No rhythm. Just thump, thump, thump. Just the echo of that moment.
Charlie's voice barely cuts through: "Kid—"
Nothing.
Charlie steps closer. "Darren."
He keeps hitting.
"Darren."
A hand on his shoulder.
He whips around, fists raised, wild-eyed.
Charlie steps back. Calm. Hands open.
"You're seeing ghosts."
Darren blinks. Blinks again. Like waking from a nightmare.
"I—"
Charlie nods toward the mats. "Sit. Now."
He drops, too tired to argue. Knees hit the floor. Gloves on thighs. Breathing jagged.
Charlie crouches. "You've got the power, kid. But this?" He gestures to the torn bag. "This isn't training. This is just running. I don't know what you're running from but at some point you're gonna have to confront it. You can't keep going like this kid it's killing you."
Darren can't speak. Doesn't want to. He just nods. Barely.
Charlie stands, gives him space. "Stretch. Cool down. I'll put the kettle on."
He's alone again. Alone with the wreckage.
He stares at the torn bag like it's something sacred. Like it's proof he still exists.
"You liked it." The voice again. His own voice. Quiet. Inside.
He clamps his hands over his ears. Breathes. One-two. One-two. Diaz is gone. You're not. Move.
He lies back on the mat, eyes to the ceiling. Fluorescents buzz overhead. Pipes hiss. Somewhere above, rain taps like static.
He closes his eyes.
It doesn't help.
[Outside the Gym]
Midnight.
The air outside hits like ice. Damp. Heavy. The kind of cold that lives in the bones.
Darren steps out, steam rising from his shoulders. Sweat clings to his back. His breath fogs in the mist.
The night presses in close with the soft drip of rain and the flicker of a broken streetlamp overhead.
Chapman stands under it, hood down. A battered Man Utd jersey under his coat. Arms crossed.
Darren slows. The sight of him jars something loose. It always feels weird being around Chapman. That gaze. It feels like he's being scanned by a machine. "Didn't peg you for a United fan."
Chapman raises an eyebrow, says nothing.
"They were the first team I ever saw," Darren adds, too fast now. "On telly. Cool jerseys. Red. Just… stuck, y'know? That's why they're my team. You?"
Chapman: "Born there."
Darren swallows. Nods. Yeah. Right. Of course.
Chapman doesn't fill the silence. Just lets it stretch. Rain beads on his shoulders.
He looks Darren up and down. Takes in the clenched jaw, the twitching hands. "You're spiraling," he says.
Darren shrugs, too tired to lie. "Still breathing."
Chapman tilts his head, watching. His silence stretches like tension wire.
Then: "You looked better in the lab."
Darren laughs, hollow. "Yeah. Place was basically a padded cell."
Chapman nods once. Like that confirms something.
He doesn't offer comfort. "Any news for me? Any new activity?" Darren rubs the back of his neck. "Nah not really haven't done much though haven't even got the suit from Johnny yet." He's gripping the hem of his gym shirt like it's the only thing tethering him to the pavement.
Chapman shifts. He's gripping the hem of his gym shirt like it's the only thing tethering him to the pavement.
Chapman nods. The rain makes his hair shine under the streetlight. Still silent. Still watching.
Then, without another word, he turns and walks off into the fog.
No goodbye. No orders. No comfort.
Just gone.
Darren exhales hard, like he's been holding his breath since the moment he stepped out.
His limbs ache. His head throbs. The gym behind him still buzzes like a memory he can't shake. The streets ahead feel too open. Too real.
He thought going home would help. But the walls don't shield you. Not when every echo sounds like a scream. Not when your own brain won't shut up.
"Free" didn't mean safe.